Asimov's Science Fiction: July 2013 (12 page)

Moe nodded. "Sure. I met him, actually, in Dublin, back in that last place, when I was prepping for the big meeting with Heisenberg. Nice enough guy. And I liked his wife and his girlfriend both."

She looked at him and raised an eyebrow.

"They all lived together in a comfortable flat on Merrion Square, courtesy of the Irish government. Wife and girlfriend are both lookers, and very pleasant. He's a lucky guy."

"In that world, Moe, but not this one. Here, in this one, he's trapped in Berlin, under house arrest for not saying nice things about the Nazis. In some others it's even worse."

"Shame," said Moe. "I just spent the one evening with them all but I liked the guy. Mostly, we talked about Schopenhauer."

"You're familiar with his thought experiment on the cat?"

"Of course."

"Well, you should know then why I can't tell you too much. It's dangerous even to tell you I can't tell you too much."

Moe realized what she was getting at. Look too close, or look at all, and it forced changes. Hell, this was all tricky enough already and he didn't need to make it worse. So he nodded, and kept it at that.

"Your memory's really back now, Moe, isn't it? That's excellent, " she said. "I'm not surprised." She finished off her wine and saw the bottle was done, too. "How about we get some of that Irish whiskey that you like?" And she stood to walk over and hit the call button for Frederick.

She came back and sat down across from Moe. "You'll like this, Moe, wait and see."

She leaned back, crossed her legs, and smiled. Seconds later there was a rap at the door and she turned toward it and said, "Come on in, Frederick."

The door opened and in walked Frederick, a plump middle-aged white guy with some unruly red hair scrambling out from under the porter's cap, a kind of beret with a thin brim and a small badge in the front that had "California-Illinois Railroad" in red written around the top of the badge.

"Mr. and Mrs. Berg? Something I can do for you?"

Moe caught on quick. "A bottle of your best Irish whiskey, please, Frederick, all right? Does the bar have some?"

"I'm sure, Mr. Berg. I'll get it for you right away, sir." He paused, held out a pen and a baseball scorecard. "And Mr. Berg, this is against regulations but I hope you won't mind. Would you put your John Hancock on this scorecard for my son? We live in St. Louis, and since you joined the Cardinals he's been a really big fan of yours. All those home runs, the way you move around behind the plate, and that great arm of yours—throwing those guys out when they try to steal and all that. Well, it'd be really special if you could sign this for him. Could you make it 'To Freddy'?"

Moe smiled, said, "Sure, Frederick," and reached out to take the scorecard and the pen. "To Freddy," he wrote across the front, "my biggest fan. Your pal, Moe Berg." And he handed it back to Frederick—this Frederick—who beamed and then backed out of the room.

Moe looked at the woman. "So it looks like I'm still Moe Berg here. You still Clarissa?"

She shook her head, patted the spot next to her on the sofa seat, and said, "You are always Moe, it seems, my friend; that's one reason you're able to do the job. It's a gift, this ability to hit start over and over again. It's a gift, and you have it."

"Lucky me," Moe said.

She smiled. "That's debatable, I suppose. But you are important, Moe, never forget
that. The whys and hows of your involvement are difficult to explain; but we know we need you. In a week, in California, you're going to see a woman who needs to be stopped and you're going to use your Beretta to do that. If she succeeds, that version of reality will fall back into war—an atomic war—that's already killed hundreds of thousands. Without her death, many millions will die, most of them Californians. The ripples of that may change other versions, other places; perhaps my version, perhaps some of yours. So this is a job that must be done and you're the only one, we think, who can do it."

"And why is that? Why am I the only one?"

She looked out the window, staring at telephone poles f licking by over the prairie. "You're different, Moe, from the rest of us. We have roots, we have a place where we're from, a definite place, each of us. You? You seem to crop up anywhere and everywhere."

She reached into her purse. "Here," she said, handing him a cardboard baseball card. A Bowman card from 1941, in color, with a nice drawing of Moe making a backhanded play at shortstop. "Moe Berg" was the imprinted autograph across the bottom of the front.

Moe flipped it over and there were the details of the career he hadn't known he'd had in the pacific Coast League, in black ink on white cardboard. At the top it said "Baseball Picture Cards" and then below it was: "Moe Berg, shortstop, Oakland Oaks, pacific Coast League, weight one hundred-eighty-f ive, height six-foot-one, bats right, throws right. Switched from the Missions to the Oaks in 1939, hitting.292 and driving in seventy-six runs. His eighty-three hits were good for a total of one hundred-thirty bases."

All of which was well and good. It was nice, Moe thought, that some version of him did well in the PCL. "Says I'm a shortstop," he said to the woman.

"You are, Moe. Or you will be by the time you get to California."

"Yeah, yeah, I got it," he said. And then he sighed, shrugged. "So," he asked her, "where and when do I kill this woman?"

Tomorrow was the day that the big mirror was going to be trucked from Pasadena to Mount Palomar, so today was the day that Moe Berg went for a nice stroll, walking down a secondary road on the mountain; a steep little road with tight turns. It was going to be a hell of a ride getting that big rig down that road to Lake Hayward.

Nearly an hour into the walk and after several miles of steep downhill, Moe reached the long f lat stretch they'd told him about. Here, if he made it this far, he'd meet the Californian troops who'd take the truck and its cargo off his hands. He'd get out of the cab of the truck, hand them the keys, watch them drive off and hope to hell they weren't getting strafed by those damn Mexican jets: Muerte Rapida, indeed. Then he'd walk ten minutes back up to the logging road that led to the little shack where the woman would meet him and together they'd head somewhere else, some other version of Palomar; somewhere, he hoped, a little safer than this version.

The P-38s had a job to do holding off those ME-262s so the big Hughes H-7 seaplanes could land on Lake Henshaw, four of them in four different places on that big lake to make it hard for any Mexican paratroopers to pull off a raid. And then one of those mammoth Hercules seaplanes would carry that cargo away and the others, with dummy loads, would do the same. Moe didn't know where they'd take that superbomb and didn't care; he figured to be long gone in some other California by then, maybe one that still was part of some kind of United States.

It all sounded pretty iffy. Too damn iffy. But then what choice did he have?

He looked around. There was plenty of room here, and just off the pavement was a wide stretch of f lat, packed dirt under some trees. That would help.

He was thinking it through, picturing in his mind how it would go, when he heard some rustling in the woods. Moe put his hand in his coat pocket to put his hand around the comfort of the Berretta. Were they onto him? Would this be the Germans? The Italians? The Japanese? Jesus, too many damn bad guys.

But it wasn't any of those. Wild Bill Donovan—not
the
William Donovan, Moe guessed, but another one—stepped out of the shadows of the cedar and oak trees and came over to him. "Hello, Mr. Berg," he said. "You enjoy your walk?"

It was damn hard to keep track of things. The Wild Bill that Moe knew from the firsttime around was nowhere near here. Hell, even the one from that clubhouse at Comiskey a few weeks ago wasn't this one, couldn't be this one; that was all three or four changes ago now.

"Mr. Berg," Donovan said, "I was told you'd be here," and he reached out to shake Moe's hand. "I'm Donovan. William Donovan. I work for the California Republic's Office of Strategic Services."

Moe nodded, said "Mr. Donovan. Nice to meet you."

So it was clear that this particular William Donovan hadn't met Moe Berg before. And he was still a spy boss, but now in California running things for the Republic.

Moe wrestled with the implications, decided to play it dumb. "And what can I do for you, Mr. Donovan?"

Donovan smiled. "We've had our eye on you all week, Moe. We're wondering why a local guy, born and raised in Southern California, would be working for the Federal States."

"That's not who I'm working for, Mr. Donovan. I'm a ballplayer, you probably know that."

"And I'm your biggest fan, Moe. When I lived in Sacramento, back when it was ours, I used to watch you play for the Oaks when they came to play the Solons. Hell of a hitter for a shortstop, Moe."

"Thanks," Moe said, but didn't believe a word of it. Donovan had looked that up, but this version of the guy didn't come across the same friendly way the version of Donovan that Moe knew back in Chicago did, or the one farther back in D.C. This one seemed like he was hiding something. He seemed dangerous.

"I had some streaks, Mr. Donovan. Had some slumps, too. It all evens out, you know."

"Evened out to a two-eighty-six batting average, Moe. Damn good for a guy with a slick glove at short and that cannon of an arm."

Moe smiled, nodded.

"But that's not why I'm here, Moe. We can talk baseball, I hope, some other time. I understand you're a pretty smart guy, Moe. You're Doctor Berg, really, right? Got that doctorate, that law degree from Stanford. You really know your stuff, right?"

Moe nodded, said, "I enjoyed going to school, I guess, Mr. Donovan."

"That and playing baseball, right, Moe? Funny, a guy like you playing ball in the PCL."

"I don't think it's funny, Mr. Donovan. It's something I enjoy and I'm good at it."

Donovan stared at him, shook his head. "You went to Japan twice with the oaks, Moe. In thirty-five and again in thirty-six."

Moe nodded. He knew this was where this conversation had to be going. Back home, in the reality he was from, he'd gone once to Japan on a tour with the White Sox. He'd taken a few pictures. Maybe some of Tokyo Harbor. Maybe some other ones, too. So he'd done the same thing here, apparently. Well, all right. He could ride this horse if he had to.

"The Japanese really love their baseball, Mr. Donovan. PCL teams go over there every year. Yes, I was lucky enough to get to go twice."

"Did you play ball the whole time, Moe, or did you do some sightseeing while you were there?"

"We were pretty damn busy, Mr. Donovan. Double-headers most days. Lots of ceremonial things going on. We didn't get a chance to be out on our own very much."

"You were out often enough, Moe. That's what I think. And you speak Japanese, too, right?"

"I get along in it, Mr. Donovan. That and French and Hebrew; Italian, too, Spanish. I have a facility for languages."

"And German?"

"Yes, and German, too. You accusing me of being a spy, Mr. Donovan? Are you serious about that?"

"No, no, Moe, quite the opposite. You're not working for the Germans or the Japanese or the Eyeties or the Mexicans. I wouldn't believe that of you. You're too much of a patriot." He smiled. "But we can sure see why the Federal States would want you in their stable. Guy like you: sports hero, speaking those languages, a bright guy."

"I'm not working for the Federal States, Mr. Donovan. I'm a ballplayer. That's all."

"Sure you are, Moe, pacing off a mountain road in the middle of nowhere where an important load will be coming tomorrow. You know this is the wrong road for that, right?"

"I'm out for a walk on a sunny day, Mr. Donovan."

Donovan walked over to get close to Moe. Stood toe to toe with him, put his finger on his chest, said, "We're watching you, Moe. We've been watching you and we'll keep watching you."

"Sure you will," said Moe, and thought about the Beretta in his coat pocket. He wondered if Donovan had anyone else with him, someone still hiding in the woods. Did he have to kill Donovan right now? Here? And then check for anyone in the woods?

Donovan pushed hard with that finger. "Moe, the Republic of California has big plans for tomorrow. We have someone on the inside of the German spy machine, a woman, and tomorrow is her big day, tomorrow she finds revenge for what the Nazis did to her family. You understand? You get in the way of those plans and you're a dead man. You got me?"

So that Miriam Ruggiero was a double agent. Should he still kill her? He didn't know.

Moe reached and took Donovan's finger from his chest, pushed it aside. Maybe this
was
the moment. He could push Donovan back, trip him, maybe, and then pull the Beretta out and shoot the son-of-a-bitch right here and be done with it. One more threat. One more hint.

But the moment passed. Donovan backed away, raised his hands in a mocking surrender. "Sorry, Moe. I didn't mean to get that touchy, all right?"

"Sure."

"So I'm asking nice now, okay? Leave it alone, tomorrow. Save yourself and your friends some grief and just leave her alone."

"I hear you, Mr. Donovan."

"Good," said Donovan and took one step toward Moe, leaned his way. "Stay out of trouble, Moe. We're watching you." And then he turned his back to Moe and walked away, back across the pavement and into the woods. Had a car in there, no doubt. And maybe a partner.

Moe watched the man's back move away and thought about the Beretta. He'd gone through a lot of training with handguns for the job involving Heisenberg. He remembered practicing with the Beretta, in particular, at Scherrer's house in Zurich. He'd been good, damn good, with the gun. He reached into the pocket, got his right hand around the Beretta, pulled it out of the pocket, gave it some thought and then,
as Donovan disappeared into the trees, Moe took a breath, nodded his head, put the Beretta back into his pocket, and turned around to walk back uphill.

On the train, they talked through much of the night, Moe and Clarissa, eating the cheese sandwiches that Frederick brought back with the Irish whiskey. After a while, Moe had a good feel for what he was supposed to do. It all made sense as long as you kept thinking about falling dominoes. That's how she explained it; a long, long row of upright dominoes and once one of them started falling the whole row went. And her world, and Moe's, were in that row and down they'd go.